


Dribs and Drabs

by grumblesandmumbles



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Drabble, Headcanon, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-09
Updated: 2015-09-09
Packaged: 2018-04-19 23:04:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4764311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grumblesandmumbles/pseuds/grumblesandmumbles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a collection of ficlets I've come up with out of headcanons and such. Some are episode fillers or possible missing scenes, but not all.</p>
<p>Gifting this to Mony aka mickeysbubblebutt since I always torment her with sad ideas before I write anything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mickeysbubblebutt (brazenlyunabashedlyshamelessly)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brazenlyunabashedlyshamelessly/gifts).



“Mickey! Get your fuckin’ ass out here, boy!”

Terry’s voice boomed through the house and Mickey felt himself fill with dread. It was never a good thing when you were on Terry’s radar. He steeled himself and got up before Terry could come and find him. That would have definitely, definitely been worse.

Mickey came out from his bedroom and was greeted by Terry and a few of his friends sitting around the kitchen table. He saw his mother by the sink, fussing over some dishes but keeping an eye on what was unfolding. Mickey approached the table slowly but didn’t speak.

Terry leered at Mickey, the smell of alcohol wafting off of him. “I’s thinkin’ it was time for you to man up a lil bit, son.”

Mickey had to stop himself from groaning. The last time Terry thought that it was time for Mickey to be a man, he had brought him to Garden Spring Spa and Mickey had spent an uncomfortable time losing his virginity to some Russian broad whose name he never caught. He couldn’t imagine what Terry had in mind now.

Terry pointed at his hand and said, “You’re gettin’ your own set.”

Mickey didn’t understand what he meant. Terry poured out two shots of whiskey into some cups and held one out for Mickey to take, clicking them together and throwing his back. Mickey raised his own cup to his lips and poured the alcohol back quickly, fighting off the urge to cough when it burned his throat. He didn’t look for a chaser; Terry would never tolerate that.

He was about to ask his father what he had meant when Terry was at his side, grabbing his arm and pushing his hand flat against the table. Another friend, Roy or Ron or something like that, grabbed the other arm and did the same. 

“The fuck? What are you doing?!”

Terry’s business partner dug through his backpack and pulled out a homemade tattoo machine. Mickey knew now, and he struggled against the grip of the older, bigger men.

“Fuck off me!”

He heard his mother yelling as Terry wrapped an arm around his throat to subdue him, but she didn’t move from her spot at the sink. Mickey didn’t begrudge her this; they both knew what would happen if she interfered. When he was nearly passed out, Terry let go of his neck and gripped his arm with both hands.

“You fight, it’s gonna be worse for ya, boy.”

Mickey braced himself against the table as he caught his breath and silently held himself together through the pain. Nothing had ever hurt like that. It was as if the needle was scraping right on the bones in his fingers and he could feel prickling at the corners of his eyes. But he knew better than to indulge it. He stared at his mother, standing by the sink and crying the tears for Mickey that he couldn’t cry for himself. 

It didn’t take long, thankfully. When it was over, Mickey turned his hands around so he could read the message his father had picked for him. 

FUCK U-UP

After his mission was complete, Terry and his cronies lost interest in Mickey and stumbled out of the house. His mother finally left her post at the sink and came over to Mickey, pulling him close and resting his head on her shoulder. She guided him back to the sink and helped him clean his hands.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Mickey couldn’t help but dredge up the memory as he and Ian sat together on the couch watching a movie. Ian had laid his head on Mickey’s shoulder and was tracing the letters across his fingers. Mickey felt himself stiffen at the contact and Ian noticed it too, looking over and seeing a rush of emotion on Mickey’s face.

He rubbed his thumb across the letters, as if he could wipe them away. “I hate these fuckin’ things.”

Ian looked at him thoughtfully and pulled Mickey’s hand up to his lips. He kissed each one, gently grazing his lips as he moved to the next, keeping his eyes on Mickey.

He leaned over and whispered in Mickey’s ear. “I don’t. They’re a part of you. I wouldn’t change any of you.”

That night when they were in bed, Mickey felt that familiar prickling in his eyes and this time, he let it come and allowed himself to let go of just that one thing. From then on, whenever he noticed his tattoos, he thought of them not as a cruel gift from Terry but as a piece of him that was loved by the boy he loved. They didn’t seem so bad after that.


	2. Chapter 2

Ian turned over and Mickey saw his face instantly wash over with relief and emotion. He felt guilty for leaving Ian in the lurch; after all that had happened between them, they should have been past that. They were, really. But he had left that niggling doubt in Ian’s mind. He laid on the bed and comforted Ian, stroking his face and kissing his forehead. Mickey felt Ian’s hand clasp around his own wrist and he shuffled closer so he could properly lay down.

A tear trickled slowly down Ian’s cheek. Mickey nuzzled his face against Ian’s cheek and they laid together quietly, Ian still holding onto Mickey as if he would leave again. Finally, Ian spoke.

“I’m not Monica.”

Mickey picked his head up off the pillow to better look at Ian, who was staring at the ceiling. “What?”

“I’m not her. I’m not my mother. I know that’s what everyone thinks.”

Mickey understood, and knew he had to tread carefully. “I never said you were, man. I don’t even know her.”

Ian whispered, more to himself than to Mickey. “They all think I’m just like her. I would never do the things she’s done.”

Mickey didn’t know how to comfort Ian, so he did the only thing he could think to do. He pressed himself impossibly close to Ian’s side, murmuring softly and petting Ian’s hair until he felt the grip on his wrist slacken. He slowly extracted himself and got up, and Ian instinctively curled up into Mickey’s place. Mickey pulled the thin blanket up over him and looked at him as he laid there. He looked so tired, but more serene than Mickey had remembered seeing him in some time.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Later, the quiet in the house was broken when Fiona climbed up into the attic and started fumbling around. Mickey went to quiet her down and got talked into helping Fiona with the laundry. After quickly realizing that he wasn’t much good with an iron or with folding, she tasked him with separating everything for her to tidy up.

He watched Fiona work, quietly pressing and folding shirts and pants, bundling socks. He thought about Ian’s word earlier and felt like he had to defend Ian. That much he could do.

Mickey bit the inside of his lip, unsure how to start. After a moment, he just blurted it out.

“You shouldn’t keep comparing Ian to your mother. He’s not her.”

Fiona shook her head. “You don’t understand, Mickey. We’ve seen it happen before. It’s history repeating itself.”

He felt his own anger rising, and tried to keep it in check. “But you can’t just decide he’s just like her because of what you think you know.”

“Mickey,” Fiona argued, her tone just a little too condescending for his taste, “You don’t know Monica. Trust me, we’ve seen this before.”

He was holding one of Ian’s sweatshirts and he felt his hands fist inside the material so that he wouldn’t burst. “No, I don’t fuckin’ know Monica. But I do know what it’s like to have people look at you some type of way just because they think they know all about you because of your family.”

Mickey tossed the sweatshirt back on top of the dryer and went upstairs, Fiona’s eyes burning into him until he rounded the corner of the wall. He tiptoed back into the room where Ian had moved closer to the edge of the bed. Mickey undid his jeans and dropped them, kicking them off onto the floor and carefully climbing over Ian to squeeze between him and the wall. He wrapped an arm around Ian’s waist protectively.

I told them I’d take care of him. I’m going to take care of him. He’ll get better.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on Tumblr. [Come hang with me!](http://grumblesandmumbles.tumblr.com)


End file.
